


What Is And What Should Never Be

by rachhell



Series: South Park Kink Meme [5]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Stan, Break Up, Cats, Characters in their 30s, Cheating, Childhood Trauma, Coffee Shops, Divorce, Future Fic, Infidelity, Love Triangles, M/M, Repressed Memories, Secret Relationship, Sexting, auto shop, not exactly a slow burn but close, versatile couple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-06-10 13:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15292788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachhell/pseuds/rachhell
Summary: Tweek and Craig have been together for a long while, long enough for their relationship to fall into unexciting, mundane routine. In the middle of their stagnation, someone else from Tweek's long-repressed childhood suddenly shows up in his life again: Stan Marsh. It's inevitable that they'd start hanging out, being that Stan's business has moved in right next door to Tweek Bros Coffee. But, as Tweek and Stan grow closer, Tweek's life as he knows it is completely upended, and he's not sure if he wants it made right again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a long one, y'all.
> 
> I took some geographic liberties with the town of South Park, kind of going off of the games and how there's nothing visible behind Tweek Bros. It's entirely possible that it could've been some kind of business, at some point.
> 
> This was written for the south park kink meme prompt of "Tweek cheats on Craig with Stan. One time he moaned his name during sex with Craig. Bonus: He loves them both, but differently and it rips him apart."
> 
> It's going to be impossible to contain all of this into one chapter, and I'm not sure exactly how long it'll be in the end. Explicit stuff won't happen until future chapters, though, and it's going to be an angstfest.
> 
> Thanks to flynntervention for the beta!

The vacant lot behind Tweek Bros coffee had been up for sale going on ten years, blades of grass and the occasional dandelion sprouting through the ever-deepening cracks of pavement as it fell into continual disrepair. Each day as he pulled into the spot at his coffee shop marked _Reserved: Owner Only,_ Tweek took stock of the lot’s small, shabby office building, vaguely remembering that, when he was younger, it housed one of those shady used car dealerships that used your job as your credit and probably ended up fucking you over in the end. Most of those people would’ve been better off just saving up, Tweek figured, thankful he hadn’t had to worry about money for quite a long time.

A _For Sale_ sign hung in the cloudy window of that little building, collecting dust and cobwebs until, during an atypically warm January, a neon-yellow placket of cardboard reading _Sold!_ was plastered atop the aging sign and a month or so later, it was missing entirely.

Construction began on a sunny Tuesday in early June. At first Tweek assumed that all the noise and commotion would drive away his customers, but any regulars lost from the cacophony of drilling, hammering, and sawing were more than made up for in number by the amount of sweaty, grimy construction workers that came in and out of the shop for black coffee or red-eyes, plus the less-frequent men in white hard hats who wore khakis and ties and ordered soy lattes.

The outdated office building was demolished into a pile of rubble, then, over the course of the summer, became a sprawling, square industrial behemoth covered in tin grey siding that took up nearly the whole lot. Glass windows stretching from floor to ceiling wrapped around about a quarter of the building, with a receptionist’s desk and waiting room in clear view of the coffee shop’s parking lot.The other side housed one, then two, then three garage doors. Equipment was brought in slowly; chairs and a fridge, and then one of those useless Keurigs on a table in the waiting area. Finally, stripes were painted on the parking lot and the Friday before Labor Day, the sign was placed.

 _Grand Opening Thursday!_ read the black block letters against a stark white background, underneath the shining neon of the understated logo of the sign:

_Marsh Towing and Auto Repair._

There was something familiar about that name. Tweek couldn’t quite place it. Maybe from a movie, a book. Marsh was a common last name after all; he could’ve heard it anywhere, so he tried not to let it get to him. But, whenever he parked his car in the dark of dawn to open Tweek Bros, the name buzzed in the back of his head like a particularly persistent gnat. _Marsh._

It was probably nothing.

Some of the regulars complained about the auto shop, mostly the older men in war veteran hats who came in the morning for single cups of black coffee and congregated around his largest table. Tweek could see their point. _All of the noise,_ they’d said, _it’s going to be so distracting!_ Or, _why couldn’t they build a nice restaurant?_ The gaggle of high school girls frequenting the shop after school for study and sugary drinks scarcely containing caffeine occupied a corner booth with a table shoved against it.They stunk up his shop with liberal squirts of sickly sweet body spray that made Tweek’s head pound from high-pitched giggles and left their backpacks in the middle of the aisle, all the while bemoaning amongst themselves — but more than loud enough for Tweek to hear — the fact that the vacant space wasn’t housing an Ulta, or a Forever-Twenty-One, whatever the hell those were.

But, when all was said and done, Marsh Towing and Auto Repair was far quieter, and less of an eyesore than any of the inhabitants of South Park had initially figured, even Tweek. It was bright, and shiny, and, for a repair shop, quite inviting, and actually sort of cute. Whoever decided on the black-and-white checkered tiles wrapping around the reception counter had made a really great choice; it gave the shop a vintage feel that reminded Tweek of when Craig went through his short-lived rockabilly phase in their early twenties.

Of course, neither he nor Tweek went through phases anymore. Craig was boring now. Tweek didn’t feel guilty about thinking that, because Craig himself had said it -- _I_ like _boring,_ he’d said, _and boring_ isn’t _boring at all when it’s with you._

Tweek wasn’t so sure about that. When the shop was slow, sometimes he had more fun talking with Karen about celebrities he knew nothing about, vicariously living through the love lives of the rich and famous. Sometimes that was more exciting than going to the same restaurants, watching the same television shows, and laying in bed reading with Craig during the increasingly rare times Craig was home instead of traveling for work.

Routine, and boring, and mundane; they _both_ were. One of those couples who, at 31, had prematurely settled into a clockwork life of work-home-sleep-work. Wasn’t it too early for that?

But, boring was nice. Boring couldn’t hurt you or scare you or unearth long-buried thoughts Tweek had forced himself to ignore for years, stuffing them deep inside the moment they began to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, just like that name _Marsh._

Craig was nice, and safe, and Craig loved him.

 _And you love Craig,_ Tweek thought one early morning in mid-September, locking his car and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. The sun and most of South Park were still asleep, the neon sign of Marsh Towing And Auto Repair illuminating the small parking lot behind Tweek Bros. It was unusually chilly and crisp even for a fall morning, and quiet enough Tweek could hear a faint buzzing from the sign joining the first light twitters of birds waking up in the trees.

As he fished out a pack of cigarettes and lit one — Craig hated when he smoked in their cars, otherwise he’d still be inside, blasting his face with artificial heat and half-listening to the news on Colorado Public Radio — he could see his breath in the air. It was joined by grey tendrils of smoke as he sucked through the first cigarette of the morning quickly enough to make him feel lightheaded.

 _You love Craig. He’s just stressed. You aren’t bored. You shouldn’t break up. It’s just his job, this feeling is gonna pass, just like it always does._ He flicked a long chunk of ash from the end of his smoke.

Craig would be away for over a month this time, traveling across the Pacific Northwest to pitch his company’s eco-friendly soap dispensers to various grocery store headquarters and offices. He’d be home for three days, four maybe, at some point in this endeavor - Tweek couldn’t quite remember which. He also couldn’t convince himself to _care_ really, because Craig would probably just sleep and eat the whole time, and in the event that they actually had sex when Craig was back, it’d be quick, and vanilla, and _boring_ just like everything else, and Craig would roll over and pass out afterwards, just like he had last night.

Unlocking the doors and disarming the alarm of Tweek Bros, he vaguely remembered Craig pressing his lips to his temple and saying goodbye, and saying "I love you, Tweek still dead asleep. He was gone when Tweek woke up, his space on the bed occupied by the warmth of their two cats. A twinge of guilt pulled at Tweek’s stomach for entertaining the thought that things weren’t as they should be.

Things were fine. _You love Craig._

The morning passed as usual, Tweek busying himself in his work. Karen was closing, William had class, and Andy was sick, so Tweek was on his own. But it was nothing he couldn’t handle. It was nothing, nothing at _all_ compared to what he had to endure in this same shop, years and years ago, when Richard was still alive, when things were bad.

He stifled those thoughts with clenched hands and a hard swallow.

The old-timers came and went. Hurried-looking people in suits or polos and name tags or scrubs, ordering coffee like it was their lifeblood, the only thing that could possibly get them through the day, slowed to a trickle until around ten when Tweek finally had time to pour himself a black coffee, snatch a cherry-vanilla scone from the pastry case — his favorite, and the recipe he was proudest of — and perch himself upon the stool behind the counter.

He was reading an article on his phone about a norovirus outbreak at a resort in Florida, something he totally _shouldn’t_ have been reading, because what if something happened at the shop and his customers got sick and he got shut down and ended up on the news, what _then,_ Tweek, what would you do then?

That was when the bell connected to the coffee shop’s door tinkled. And then, for the first time in heaven only knew when, a person who made his stomach drop and the tips of his fingers tingle entered the shop.

 _Okay,_ he thought, caught frozen with his phone in one hand and scone in the other, his mouth idiotically hanging open like a teenage girl meeting her celebrity crush, _So it’s some hot guy. Some_ really _hot, sexy as holy_ fuck _guy, but so what? Plenty of guys are hot. It’s okay to think someone is hot, it’s natural, it means nothing, you think Bradley Cooper and Hugh Jackman are hot as hell too, you can admire someone, it’s natural, totally natural, totally normal, it’s_ **_fine_ ** _._

Swallowing a bit of scone that dryly lodged in his throat, Tweek tried to sound as professional as he could as he managed to squeak, “Good morning!”

This man had the bluest eyes Tweek had ever seen. His hair was jet black, his face angular and scruffy, yet holding an effortless sort of kindness around his eyes.His lips, with a perfect cupid’s bow, turned up at the corners as he with wide eyes took in the interior of the shop, like he was a child at a museum.

Tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, a little soft around the middle, just like Tweek liked, just like Craig would never be because he could never put on weight... it was weird that this guy kind of looked like Craig, a little bit, but more like an idealized version of Craig, like what he’d _wished_ Craig had grown up to look like, a thought which made Tweek’s ears feel hot. Instead of long, slender fingers that had never seen a hard day’s work other than typing away at reports, this man’s large, square hands were dirty with black grime under the nails. They were unexpectedly attractive. Underneath his black fleece jacket, above his dirty jeans, he was wearing a navy blue button-up with a patch on the chest.

 _Stan,_ it read.

So, it was someone from the shop; that’d explain why Tweek had never seen him before. They _were_ a new business. This guy could be a commuter from one of the Denver suburbs, or from Denver itself; he probably didn’t even live here, and Tweek would probably only see him once in a great while. It was totally, completely okay for him to think this Stan dude was hot. The fact  he’d maybe have some eye candy coming in and out on occasion would, at the very least, make his work day a little bit more exciting.

 _It’s fine. It’s normal. You’re allowed to look,_ he thought.

“Working hard, or hardly working?” Stan-guy said in a jovial, bright tenor, sauntering to the counter with a wide smile stretched across his face.

Tweek had to fight to keep himself from rolling his eyes. _Oh, Jesus._ It was going to be one of _those_ customers. Nevermind about the hotness. He forced a laugh. “Little bit of both, I guess. What can I get you?”

“Uh…” He studied the chalkboard menu Karen had meticulously designed, expression slightly confused. “Blended white chocolate raspberry mocha… that any good?”

“It’s pretty popular,” _with teenagers,_ Tweek thought.

“One of those, I guess,” he said, pulling out his wallet. “Our Keurig is on the fritz over at the shop, and I haven’t been by to see you yet, so I figured, what the hell, kill two birds with one stone, right?”

 _Okay, dude, whatever you say,_ thought Tweek. Of course the Keurig was on the fritz, those things were trash, wasteful, a scourge on the coffee industry… and what the hell was this guy talking about, coming by to see him? He wished that simple, yet puzzling statement hadn’t made his cheeks burn. “Small, medium, or large?”

“Large.”

“Any extra shots?”

“Of what?” Stan’s eyes crinkled and glinted, chuckling at his own joke Tweek didn’t quite understand.

“Uh, espresso.”

“Sure, why not toss one in,” Stan said, “How you been, Tweek?” There was something apologetic in his smile, which didn’t make any sense because clearly he hadn’t done anything _wrong,_ he was just a customer. Maybe he felt weird because he’d ordered such a girly drink.

“Business is good.” It wasn’t strange that this guy knew Tweek’s name, right? It was right there in the name of the coffee shop itself, totally _normal… But why is he talking to me like he knows me?_ “Six-oh-four.”

Stan paused, debit card in hand. “What’s that thing you were eating?”

“Cherry vanilla scone,” said Tweek with a small smile. He was surprised he wasn’t yet sold out; they were typically a hot seller.

“One of those too,” Stan said.

“Eight-thirty.”

“Good deal. How’s Craig?” Stan asked nonchalantly, and leaned against the counter. As Tweek engaged himself in firing up three shots of espresso, keeping his gaze focused on the machine, he could practically feel this man’s curious stare upon him. And, okay, _that_ question was a little weird. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Craig and Tweek had been together for most of their respective lives, but there was no way someone who hadn’t lived in South Park for at least a little while would know anything about their relationship, or even Craig in general. “Awh, um, you’re still with Craig, right?”

“Yes? He’s fine.” _Okay, what the fuck_ . Only for a few seconds did Tweek allow himself to entertain the fleeting thought he could be a spy from the government or from North Korea or maybe even just from Harbucks. Or maybe this man wasn’t even real at all, maybe he was something straight out of Tweek’s imagination because he was sure _attractive_ enough to be some kind of fucked-up daydream who inexplicably knew all of this shit about him.

“You guys married yet?”

“No!” Tweek jerked his head sideways from where he’d positioned himself at the blender. Stan, in Tweek’s peripheral vision, was staring at him, head tilted slightly to the side. He had a nice neck, muscular and inviting, and the errant stubble which crept from his chin onto that sinewy neck would probably feel really good against Tweek’s lips, and — _ugh,_ Tweek wished he’d stop prying, especially since that question, _are you guys married yet,_ made Tweek feel absolutely nothing. No annoyance that Craig hadn’t popped the question after however-the-fuck-many years together, nor any desire for Tweek to do so himself, just… _nothing._

“He an astronaut yet?”

“He’s in sales,” Tweek said, through clenched teeth. His hands trembled as he poured the sickly-sweet concoction into a large to-go cup. This was getting ridiculous, _all_ of it. Tweek wished this would be over, whatever it was, real or not.

“Oh.” Stan looked down, picked at his fingernails, and sighed. “I got divorced last year.”

“That, ah, that sucks, man, sorry to hear.” Definitely, _definitely_ one of those customers who treated a barista, or a bartender, or even an unsuspecting teenager stuck behind the cash register of a grocery store as their own personal therapist. Regardless of his curiosity about how much this person knew, and how he’d found it out, Tweek was getting annoyed. “Whipped cream?”

“Sure.” Stan shrugged. “It’s whatever. The divorce, I mean. Live and learn, and all that,” he said. It was an obvious lie, from how ardently he focused on his grimy nails. “So, _Craig_ is in sales, huh? Wouldn’t think he’d have the personality for that, he was always a little bristly, from what I remember.”

“Excuse me?” Tweek set Stan’s drink on the counter harder than he should’ve, whipped cream sloshing out the top of its domed lid, and crinkled, instead of folding, the bag in which he’d shoved the scone. Ridiculous, _all_ of it, completely and utterly fucking ridiculous; what the _fuck_ was this guy playing at? “Look, man, do I, _ngh_ … I’m sorry, but have we met before?”

Stan’s eyes went wide as saucers and he paused, hand in midair reaching for his coffee. “Oh, god, I’m sorry, I should’ve…” With one of those grimy, lovely hands, he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes and slightly shaking his head. “Aw, shit, you really don’t remember me at all, do you?”

“Sorry,” Tweek said, feeling a bit guilty for snapping at the guy.

“It’s Stan,” he said, like it should’ve been the most obvious thing in the world to Tweek, like every alleged memory should have hit him, right then and there, like a missile.

“Well I knew _that_ ,” Tweek said, smiling a little at the look of confusion on the other man’s face, “Your name is on your shirt.”

“Oh. I guess it is.” He took a sip of his coffee, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. _At least he likes the coffee,_ thought Tweek. “Stan Marsh,” he said. His tongue darted out of his mouth for a split second to lick a bit of coffee from his lower lip, leaving it wet and glistening.

Tweek’s hands felt suddenly sweaty. “Marsh Towing and Auto Repair,” he murmured.

“Right, yeah, the shop’s mine.” Leaning against the counter like it was a bar rather than an independent coffee shop, Stan grinned. “I lived here til I was, oh I dunno, probably sixteen or something. We used to hang out all the time when we were little, us and Kyle Broflovski and Eric Cartman and, you know, those guys. Remember?”

Of course Tweek remembered Eric Cartman. Hell if anyone could ever _forget_ Eric Cartman. And Kyle, he had red hair, he was in orchestra with Craig, but he took the smart-people classes that Tweek couldn’t handle because they were too much pressure, like everything else back then; that was all Tweek could recall of Kyle, nothing before the two years he spent at Park County High. But Stan Marsh...this gorgeous, friendly Stan Marsh… Tweek didn’t, _couldn’t_ recall. “Oh, ah, yeah, of course,” he lied.

“Oh! And Kenny McCormick, how could I forget! He still lives here,” Stan added. He let out an appreciative grunt after downing a couple more sips of his beverage.

“Oh! Yeah. I know Kenny, and his wife,” Tweek replied, glad to find a subject that wouldn’t make his head feel so _strange._ “They’re nice.”

“Cute kids, too. He and I caught up a couple weeks ago.”

Tweek nodded. “His sister’s actually our manager here.”

Kenny and his brood, Karen and her revolving-door boyfriends that never worked out for whatever particular, picky reason on her part… they were the closest thing that Tweek had to friends, other than Craig; they were familiar, _comfortable_ subjects. Tweek noticed that not only were his heart pounding and his stomach feeling like it was about to drop out, his knees were threatening to buckle, his head and shoulders wracked with tremors, and his teeth clenched together making his jaw feel tight and sore. He gripped the edge of the wooden countertop, willing himself to stay upright, focusing on the texture of the surface. He leaned against it, sharp edge digging into his thin hip.

Stan appeared to be none the wiser to Tweek’s state. Vaguely, he remembered that if Stan knew him when he was young, he was probably _used_ to seeing Tweek like this, shaking and sick. Wasn’t this what he was like all the time, back then?

“Karen? Aw, that’s so cool, I remember when she was really little,” said Stan casually.

Tweek couldn’t say the same. “She’s a great employee.”

Despite the soft music playing in the background (some kind of generic indie playlist Tweek selected that morning, the whiny vocals and strumming acoustic guitars of each song nearly indistinguishable from the next, seamlessly blending together into one piece of boring similarity), and any odd atmospheric sounds from the shop, or outside, their pause in conversation caused the kind of silence that felt like a gaping void threatening to swallow Tweek whole. The silence only lasted a few seconds, but felt much longer. Just as Tweek felt the edges of his vision begin to go black, Stan shifted, the jingling of keys on his hip and the bashful yet joyful smile on his face jerking Tweek out of whatever tunnel of recollection his mind was fast approaching like a speeding car hurtling through a hollowed-out side of a mountain.

Stan had a beautiful smile.

“So, yeah, guess I couldn’t stay away,” he said. Idly, Stan flicked the end of his straw with his pointer finger, which was totally nasty, because he was going to _drink_ from that, after his greasy-grubby hands had been all over it.

 _Gross,_ it was totally _gross_ , totally unhygienic… Even so, Tweek couldn’t control a fleeting, heart-pounding thought of sucking on one of those fingers, grime and all, of looking into those bright blue eyes and opening his mouth to - _Nope. Nope, do_ not _go there, it is_ not _some random guy anymore_ . Tweek reached for his coffee, and found it was cool enough to down in several large gulps, but still warm enough to feel heat crowd his esophagus and blossom when it hit his stomach. It wasn’t _right_ to have that kind of thought, especially not when the rest of his mind was occupied by those strange, swimmy half-memories.

Stan was talking, but all Tweek could hear was blood rushing in his ears. He crumpled the paper cup tightly in his fist with a deep inhale, then slowly unclenched his hand, breathing out, bringing himself back. “...And remember that thing with George Lucas? That shit was wild,” Stan finished whatever story he was telling.

“That…” Tweek’s voice was barely a croak. He cleared his throat. _George Lucas, Stephen Spielberg, hats and television talk shows and._ .. “Yeah. Yeah! I _do,_ that was you?”

“Yup, and the guys,” said Stan with a chuckle, “I’ll never forget your face when you pulled out that bazooka.”

“Superheroes,” Tweek found himself muttering, softly, his mouth speaking independently of his brain because he wasn’t _sure,_ he didn’t _know,_ except for images that fluttered in the back of his mind, cloudy like he was viewing them through lake water, of a lab, a police station, and kids in silly costumes and Richard… _Richard,_ his father, he hadn’t _liked_ late he was out, _do you realize how late it is? Do you realize what could have happened?_ And there was the coffee, the _fucking_ coffee, Tweek stuck in the back of this very shop working and working and _working_ until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, until he got another cup, another, _another,_ and finally crashing on a makeshift bed of burlap bags, some filled with fragrant beans, some filled with something _else,_ and Craig would sometimes be there, stroking Tweek’s hair, holding his hand as his eyes fluttered open from much-needed slumber.

“Oh, Jesus!” Tweek found himself exclaiming, face burning. _Craig._

“The… Right! Yes!” Stan’s smile grew wider yet. “ _Yeah,_ dude, it’s crazy how much things’ve calmed down since then, you know? It’s like growing up here, we had enough excitement for a lifetime and now it’s… nothing. I mean. For me, at least, I dunno about you?”

No matter what had happened to Stan, and whether or not their paths had crossed for a significant part of said childhood excitement, that was one sentiment to which Tweek could more than agree. He was sure, however, that it was for completely different reasons. “This is it, you’re looking at it,” Tweek said, gesturing to the empty coffee shop. “Pretty much, ah, zero excitement.”

“Huh,” Stan mused. His thick eyebrows met in the center of his forehead, and his face briefly twisted into an expression of apparent confusion that made Tweek wonder if perhaps Stan remembered Tweek’s life differently than _he_ did. It lasted for but a moment, before Stan quickly shook his head, and took another sip of coffee. He pulled his mouth off of the straw with a tiny smack. “I like the quiet, though, the calm. I was living in Houston and that was just a _lot,_ you know?”

“Texas?”

“Yep,” Stan affirmed.

“Bet you’re missing the heat about now,” Tweek said, instantly feeling dumb. That was _lame,_ that was some kind of small-talk he’d make with any random passerby from out of state, not with someone who could have been, probably _was_ , at one point important. There were bits and pieces there — Stan had a sister, Tweek remembered that, of all things, and there was something with one of their teachers, something _bad_ , and a flash-like memory of something to do with an amusement park and roses, and searching the woods for something, or someone. And, yes, he _was_ there for that, this Stan Marsh, Tweek remembered clear as day because Craig was there, too… Tweek could’ve brought that up, any of it, instead of talking about something as mundane as the weather, but breaching the subject of a childhood he’d purposely forgotten, with a man he barely recalled, would be a longer endeavor than the five minutes it took to make a complicated mocha.

Tweek wasn’t sure he wanted to remember, anyway.

“Hell no. I missed _this_ , the entire time I was there.” Stan flashed a grin --  _beautiful smile, really beautiful, oh god --_ baring straight, white teeth, and indicated the falling leaves outside the large windows. “Okay, well, I gotta get back, I have a guy coming by for an interview in a few. I’m sure I’ll see you around, since we’re neighbors and all, yeah?” Stan started toward the door.

“God, I hope so,” Tweek blurted out, loud and sudden. _Shit, shitshitshit._ He twisted his fingers into the little tendrils of hair that hung, at the nape of his neck, from his dishevelled bun. He pulled, not hard enough to make him wince, just enough to ground himself. “I, agh, I mean, ah, sure.”

Stan, one hand poised on the glass of the door, stilled, back perfectly straight and grip tight upon his coffee cup. Slowly, he turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Tweek shaking and blushing like an _idiot_ behind the counter. Their eyes locked. “Yeah, I hope so too,” said Stan, clear and jovial and surely, _surely_ not as low and breathy and, god _forbid,_ flirtatious as Tweek thought he might have heard.

 _Surely_ not. “Ah, seeya, man,” Tweek said in a heavy-tongued stammer.

“Seeya.” Stan smiled again, and he was off. The ding of the bell as the door closed behind him was Tweek’s cue to slump against the counter, head in hands. _Shit,_ he thought, and _what just happened what the fuck_ and _what happened back then, what the fuck happened, who are you and why do I want you to come back?_

His phone vibrated atop the counter. _Craig Tucker, text message._ Next to it lay the forgotten, crumpled bag containing Stan Marsh's cherry vanilla scone.

“I need a fucking smoke,” Tweek muttered to the empty shop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home is where the heart is, or some bullshit like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this instead of sleeping. Shorter chapter, but at least it's up. Bear with me, here.

What was once Tweek’s childhood home, now painted a sunny yellow and remodeled just enough that Tweek could stand to live there, was mostly dark when Tweek arrived from work, save for the glow of what he knew was the lamp on Craig’s side of the bed peeking through the plain, off-white curtains of their bedroom window. That they were opened in the middle, ever-so-slightly, had to have been Craig’s doing. Craig always reminded Tweek not to shut the curtains all the way, so the cats could look out the windows. And, indeed, a fuzzy, orange head with yellow eyes that glinted in the dusk of the early evening poked through the gap in the fabric, quickly disappearing the moment Tweek turned his key in the lock.

With aching feet and that nagging, stabbing pain in the small of his back that had been plaguing him for years now, ever since the years of his early twenties when he regularly overestimated his own strength and lifted bag after bag of coffee beans without checking his form _(your legs, Tweek, lift with your_ legs _you stupid boy, no wonder you’ll never amount to anything_ resounded through his mind at the brief memory, in a voice that was not his own), Tweek entered the house leg-first, his shin immediately coming into contact with the soft, chubby form of Luke, his little escape artist, who let out an indignant meow.

“Not today, buddy,” Tweek said, scooping up the offending cat, who wriggled in his grasp until the door was securely closed and Tweek released him, allowing him to jump to the floor with a clumsy thud and a disgruntled _brrt._ “You never learn, do you?” Tweek asked as he kicked off his sneakers, allowing them to land somewhere in the general vicinity of the coat rack and the mat that housed several orderly, lined-up pairs of Craig’s rather vast shoe collection.

Luke, looking as if he not only understood, but disagreed wholeheartedly, glared at him.

“You wouldn’t last a day out there and you know it,” Tweek said, staring pointedly at his pet, “You don’t even have claws!”

Luke seemed to have had enough of this conversation, and padded the length of the living room with a haughty swish to his tail, the tags on his lime-green collar jingling with each step. From the kitchen, Tweek heard the high, somewhat meek meow of their calico, Leia, followed by tiny crunches and grunts as brother and sister cat enjoyed their evening meal.

At least Craig would never forget to feed the cats before he left for his trips. If anything, he fed them too much, because if Craig hadn’t filled that bowl so much it was nearly overflowing they surely wouldn’t still be eating _now,_ at six-thirty. But, too much food or not, he still fed them, he _cared_ for them, so Tweek needed Craig there, to feed the cats. He couldn’t do that alone, could he? It wasn’t like he _didn’t_ feed them or look after them or love those two dumb rescue cats the same way he supposed he’d love his own child, not that he wanted to have any _actual_ children so of _course_ he’d feed them and play with them and change their litter and _all_ that stuff if he were alone… he just sometimes needed to be reminded to do things, was all.

Plopping down on their sagging sectional, which could really use a good cleaning, Tweek dug the heel of his hand into the throbbing arch of his left foot, kneading tender flesh in tiny circles in a vain effort to massage away both the pain of the day, and the thought that he’d managed to take care of those cats just _fine_ on his own every time Craig went away, thank you very _much,_ so maybe he didn’t need Craig after all, maybe he was even _happy_ that Craig had gone away again. And if, for some reason, something happened and Craig wasn’t there _(when you break up,_ he thought, and scrunched his eyes up tight. _No no nonono_ **_no,_ ** _don’t_ ), it wasn’t as if the cats would let him forget, anyway.

“Don’t,” he muttered to the empty room. _Don’t think that._

The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the crunchcrunch _crunch_ of the cats, the drip in the sink he really should fix taunted him in return.

“Shut up, just _shut the fuck up,”_ he hissed, with clenched jaw, at the nothingness surrounding him.

To himself. To his _head._

He switched on the television. News. More news. Reruns. _More_ reruns, and why hadn’t he called to cancel the cable? Craig was the one who wanted it, and all Tweek ever did was exactly what he was doing then, sprawling on his back and flipping through channels before settling on something mediocre, losing interest within the first few minutes, and turning his attention to one of the time-sucking, freemium games on his phone until he ran out of lives on all of them and decided instead to mindlessly scroll through his Facebook feed.

He very rarely posted, and, at this point, he wasn’t sure who most of these people even _were,_ or where he met them, or why he kept up the flimsy facade of social media friendship with these assholes who did things like name their fourth baby fucking _Neveah_ and post scaremongering clickbait about _the liberals_ , but here he was. He found his eyes flicking to the tiny magnifying glass at the top of the app between each picture of someone’s kid, or dog, or car selfie.

 _Marsh is a common last name,_ he thought. _Stan is a common first name. There are probably dozens. Hundreds, even._

His thumb hovered over the search bar, for just a second, but he sighed, he set his phone face down on the coffee table and tossed his arm across his eyes, pressing hard, shutting everything, _everything_ out and, Jesus _fuck_ would a normal person even be freaking out about adding a childhood friend on social media no, _no_ , of _fucking_ course not but when was he ever normal, when would he ever _be_ normal, never, _never, never going to—_

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, jolting upwards so he was seated cross-legged, drawn in on himself, and reached for his phone. “Fuck.”

 _Stan Marsh,_ he tapped out into the search bar, and deleted.

He spent a few moments staring at the television. It was a rerun of _King of Queens,_ which he always despised, but he couldn’t be bothered to change the channel.

 _Stanley Marsh,_ he tried, and hit enter.

Of course, there was nothing. A few display pictures of men in their sixties from around the area, a few younger men who lived in Texas and England and New York, among other places, but no striking blue eyes or disarming smile. And that was just as well, really, because Tweek already had a smile and a pair of eyes in his life, he _guessed,_ and he _supposed_ it was time to give Craig a call.

Not that he wanted to, really. And not that he _knew_ why he didn’t want to do it.

 _Stan Marsh,_ he tried. Still nothing.  
  
Maybe the guy was one of those _lawyer up, hit the gym, delete Facebook_ types, given his recent divorce. No matter. It was probably for the best. Tweek didn’t want to think about _why_ it was for the best, because Stan Marsh, alleged childhood friend, probably didn’t like men, and even if he did like men he was just being _nice_ , and Tweek was _practically married_ and he’d never do anything stupid enough to justify the fact that not finding someone on Facebook was _for the best_ in the first place.

Pathetic, _disgusting-you’re-so-disgusting,_ to even think it.

He stared at his home screen -- a picture depicting one of the rare occasions Luke and Leia decided to cuddle together -- until the screen went black.  
  
He should call Craig.  
  
“Fuckin, need a fuckin….” Tweek regarded the half-empty pack of cigarettes perched on the edge of the coffee table. He was _comfortable,_ but smoking inside his house meant the walls would turn yellow and bleed tarry nicotine at the first sign of warm weather and the couch would smell and _Craig would know he always knows_ and it would linger in the air and his cats would die and he would die, but he was going to die anyway so this, _this_ would make him die faster so did he really _fucking_ care?

Swinging his legs, he shifted so he was seated closer to the coffee table. He could use the nearly-empty Coke can Craig left behind -- _and you get on me for not cleaning, you get ON me and then you leave that sitting there --_ as an ashtray. The cats were somewhere else. Whatever.

Cancerous smoke was more inviting than the purest of oxygen. It swirled in the air, veiling the television screen like mist. He could vape, or something, but he didn’t want to be one of _those_ people. Nothing evened him out as much as this, _nothing,_ and he knew it was terrible, he knew that coffee and cigarettes and scones weren’t a diet, but he didn’t _care._

Tweek missed caring, sometimes. It wasn’t that he _didn’t,_ not really. He did. He did, but sometimes -- _don’t lie to yourself, it’s fucking_ not _sometimes, you idiot, it’s constant and you know it --_ he had to force himself to do it.

He should call Craig, and he would. After he lit up another smoke. Craig would freak if he heard the flip of a lighter _and_ the television on in the background. He’d know.

And, when he called, Tweek thought, by some saving grace, that it would go to voicemail. As if he hadn’t been dealing with enough out-of-nowhere guilt that day, he didn’t even want Craig to _answer?_ But he did, eventually, on the fourth ring.

“Hey, babe.” Craig’s voice was groggy and heavy and, worst of all, he sounded _happy_ to hear from Tweek.

 _Stop fucking thinking it, he should be happy, you should be happy, everything is fine. You_ are _happy._

“Hey.” Tweek held the phone away from his mouth as he took a drag, and exhaled. “Glad you got there safe. How’s it going so far?”

“Uh. Not much happening yet. We’re pitching at, uh.” Craig cleared his throat, and there was a rustling in Tweek’s speaker. “Baker International in the morning, I guess.”

“Huh?” As if Tweek would know that. As if he were a mind-reader, as if he knew _anything_ about what Craig did because Craig _barely told him about it._

“Some office, I don’t know, they’re remodeling or something. New offices need soap, y’know how that shit goes.”

“Oh. Okay.” He heard Craig yawn, and a bit of shuffling, and the click of a lamp being turned on. “I woke you up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“ _Agh,_ sorry, man.”

“It’s okay.” And Craig genuinely sounded like it _was._ He sounded happy.

“It’s, ah, kinda early to be asleep.” The embers of his cigarette fizzed when he thumbed it into the opening of the soda can. His stomach felt like it was trying to give itself an intricate braid. Craig sounded happy. Craig was happy to hear from him.

Tweek was, he _should be_ , happy to hear from Craig.

“Just a nap,” answered Craig, and then, his voice rising a half-octave in the way it only did when he spoke to Tweek, “I wish I was still there, honey.”

“Yeah.”

“Miss you,” Craig said.

“Miss you.” Craig wouldn’t be able to see that Tweek wasn’t smiling.  
  
And he didn’t know why he said it, but then again, Tweek never knew why he _said,_ why he _did anything at all._ “So, um, something happened today, and…”

 _Shit._ How was he supposed to even finish that? _Something happened today and now I’m having all of these fucked-up, intrusive thoughts about throwing away our twenty years of whatever, and come to think of it, isn’t it ridiculous that we’re in our thirties and have_ had _twenty years of whatever, because I most definitely think it is, and maybe we should sit down and talk about this before I rip out all of my hair?_

“What’s wrong, babe?”

_Something happened today and now I’m realizing that I don’t remember much of my childhood and I only remember the parts where you were around and isn’t that fucked up, because I shouldn’t have to depend on you for everything, especially not the control I have over my own memories, but here we fucking are?_

“Babe?”

 _Do you remember Stan Marsh? Something happened today and Stan Marsh is back. And by some weird twist of events, Stan Marsh made me remember stuff and I really don’t know if I like that, because I think I was happier forgetting. And did you know that Stan Marsh who I don’t really remember, but_ you _might is insanely sexy because, oh, he is, and I want to suck on his fingers and rub my face all over his, is that cool?_

“Um.” Tweek swallowed. His hand drifted to his head, in the back, where his hair was overgrown and spilling over his collar and he gave it a yank. “Luke got in the garbage, I’m afraid he, _agh,_ he might’ve eaten something bad,” he said, as fast as he possibly could.

“Oh.” There was a small edge of concern to Craig’s flat voice. “He’s not acting weird or anything, is he?”

“No.”

“He’s probably fine, he’s such a fatass that he probably just picked out whatever food he could and the worst’ll happen is he horks it up.” At this, Craig gave a chuckle. Tweek pulled at his hair. “See how he’s looking in the morning and if he seems funny, take him to the vet, I guess.”

“Y… Yeah. Ah, yeah, okay, I’ll do that.”

He heard Craig suck in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

 _“Yes_ I’m okay!” Tweek snapped, voice echoing off the walls of their living room. The cats were arguing upstairs, too, he could hear it. Craig loved those cats like they were his children, and, suddenly, Tweek felt like he might burst into tears. “I’m just, nngh, worried about Luke?”

“Babe, Luke’ll be fine.” Craig was always so cool, so calm, so _Craig._ “I miss you.”

“Miss you too,” Tweek said, and with a lurch in his heart, he screwed his eyes shut, and exhaled a sigh. He fucking _did._ God, he fucking did, god he was _stupid,_ god he was a _dumb fucking idiot._ “I, ah…. I guess I should let you get back to sleep, huh?”

“Mmh.” It was evident that Craig _needed_ sleep. He sounded exhausted, and Tweek knew this because he knew _Craig,_ because to anyone else he _always_ sounded the same. “Love you. I’ll text you in the morning, okay?”

“You too. Bye.”

“Bye, baby.”

Tweek lit up another cigarette. Even with the entire house to himself, he might just sleep on the couch.

 _I never said I love you,_ he thought, flipping to another channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eventually something's going to happen.
> 
> don't worry, craig's not going to be an asshole in this fic. if anyone is, it'll probably be tweek. i'm hoping NOBODY will be, but that is tbd.


End file.
